


Oliver

by NotASpaceAlien



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fem!Crowley, Fluff, Flying, hybrid babies, mpreg that's not really mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:43:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5120447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotASpaceAlien/pseuds/NotASpaceAlien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale and Crowley try something new together, and it has very unexpected consequences neither of them are sure how to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oliver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatcreepyblueeye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatcreepyblueeye/gifts).



> I wrote this for my friend \\(^-^)/  
> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/128965881045/this-ones-for-starsandblackeyes-who-requested

After the debacle that came to be called the Almostpocalypse, a certain angel and a certain demon became very close.  It did not happen without an expected amount of awkwardness and miscommunication and disappointment followed by reversals and elation and a whole host of other occurrences that were probably very entertaining, but this story is not about that.

It’s about what happened afterwards.  Becoming close progressed from an uptick in the frequency with which they saw each other in restaurants, to seeing more of each other drunk, to seeing more of each other naked, then seeing each other drunk and naked,* as these things sometimes do progress.

* * *

* _Usually_ not also at restaurants, except for once when they had both been too drunk to realize they had been unsuccessful in miracling themselves back home before beginning their naughty activities.  It was the only restaurant Aziraphale was now banned from, though not the only one Crowley was no longer allowed in.

* * *

So, while angels are generally sexless, Aziraphale and Crowley became progressively good at Making An Effort now that they had found someone they were interested in Making An Effort with after all this time in their corporations.

And, as they became increasingly good at it, they also began to get bored with the same thing over and over again, and they began to explore and find ways to introduce variety.

Both of them were making their Efforts as male, but they had both been in female corporations before, although they certainly hadn’t used them for anything like _this_ before.  Crowley was the first one to give it a shot, and she rather enjoyed it.  Aziraphale liked it too.

She liked it so much that the morning after when she woke up and realized she was still in a female body, she decided to keep it that way for a little while.  Although Hell was no longer giving her missions**, she still enjoyed causing a little trouble every now and again, although it was always of the non-supernatural kind nowadays to avoid infringing on an ambiguous statement from Adam that they shouldn’t “mess about” with people anymore.  So she went about her day causing mischief and going to the cinema and teasingly flirting with people of any gender with no intent to follow through, in her female body.

* * *

**both Crowley and Aziraphale had never heard back from their respective sides after the Nopocalypse, and they both were operating under the assumption that Adam had set them off-limits somehow.  Both were too scared to try and find out and were just fine with the way things were.

* * *

And when Aziraphale came home to the small house they now shared from a day of doing non-supernatural good deeds, he saw that Crowley was still in a female body, and liked it again, and then liked it in the same way that he had liked it the previous night, as did the demon.

Crowley and Aziraphale were not stupid.  Crowley had spent much time convincing some human men that sex wasn’t worth having if you had to wear a condom, and Aziraphale was indirectly responsible for the proliferation of birth control in pill form, despite what many hold for the Church’s teachings.  But for beings that could wish away illness and modify their bodies at will, they had never thought _they_  would ever have use for such things.  The thought had never entered their minds.  And Crowley had never considered that there might be consequences to keeping her body anatomically female for a while longer because she liked it.

That was why Crowley now found herself on the bathroom floor, curled up in a ball, sobbing anxiously, with a slender white stick with two vertical lines on it sitting on the bathroom sink.

She had noticed it while she had been out and about; she was just walking down the street when she became _aware_  of something small burning in her belly, and she immediately felt the weight of her thoughtlessness crashing into her, and had rushed to confirm it.

She left the multiple positive tests in the bathroom and sat down on the sofa in the living room, staring at the door and waiting for Aziraphale to come back.

He did, a few hours later, and found her waiting just like that, and sensed something was wrong.

“Oh, dear,” he said, setting his bag down and moving onto the couch with her.  “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”  


She nodded mutely.

“What is it then?  Talk to me.”  


She put her hand on her stomach, and he _knew._

Both of them were thinking the same thing about the other person.

Crowley knew Aziraphale’s head was filled with visions of Nephilim and divine wrath and angels cleansing abominations.  Crowley knew Aziraphale was thinking of how to get rid of it, possibly before it was born, possibly even regardless of what Crowley wanted.  Crowley was picturing herself having to choose between keeping her partner and keeping this small, fragile, unknown thing that was growing inside of her and begging for protection and love before it could speak.  She was picturing herself alone, hiding from Aziraphale and every angel in existence and every demon who would cause them harm*** just for survival.

* * *

***That is, every demon.

* * *

Aziraphale was not actually thinking any of those things.  He was thinking about how scared Crowley must have been finding this out without him, and he was thinking about whether Crowley was even willing to host something like this inside her, and he was picturing himself hovering over Crowley every moment, waking or not, for nine months because he was picturing Crowley going behind his back to do something convenient but unpleasant, and he was rapidly going through every possible permutation their conversation might twist through in the next moments because Crowley was a _demon_  and raising the Antichrist was one thing but _this_ -

Aziraphale moved towards Crowley, and Crowley flinched away from him.

Aziraphale put his hands on his own legs instead, then, and they sat in silence for a moment before Crowley burst out, “I don’t want to kill it, Aziraphale, please, please don’t make me, I don’t want...”

Aziraphale moved again, then, and put one arm around her shoulders, and took her hand with his other, and squeezed her.  “No one’s going to make you do anything, Crowley.  It’s okay.  Calm down.”

That seemed to mollify her a bit, and she leaned into him, just letting him hold her for a while.

“I can’t raise this thing, Aziraphale,” she said.  “I can’t...”  


Aziraphale squeezed her again.  “Why ever not?  You just said you didn’t want-”

“Because in case you couldn’t tell-” she snapped, suddenly angry, “I don’t always make the _best decisions_.  Warlock was one thing.  We were trying to avert the apocalypse and we _messed_  him up, Aziraphale, we messed _all_ of that up.”  


Aziraphale’s lips gently brushed her head.  “Humans don’t make good decisions, either, and they manage it successfully quite often.”

She stared at the floor morosely, her hands around her midsection.

“They won’t _let_  us,” said Crowley.  


Aziraphale knew what she meant.  While it _was_  rare, he knew it wasn’t the first time an angel and a demon had done something like this, although this was probably the first time it had been consensual, if he was honest with himself.  No one had ever found out what the results might have been, because both parents and child had been killed not long after discovery; Heaven had been the first to get to them as far as he had heard, but he knew Hell wouldn’t have stood complacently by either.

No one was quite sure what a child with this particular parentage might be like, but Aziraphale had a suspicion.  Angelic sex is--well, rather more complicated than sex between two human bodies inhabited by nothing more than humans.  There is a whole other metaphysical level to the interaction, including temporary merging of angelic essences when they sync.  It would work the same way with a demon, whose grace was tainted but still functional in this matter.  And Aziraphale had felt part of their merged grace--sort of drip off, but had taken no notice of it at the time.  And the thing he could feel inside Crowley was softly glowing--only metaphorically, of course--like an angel’s or a demon’s grace.  There hadn’t been anywhere for it to go before, but this time, when they had been in the middle of what could rightly be called _procreation_ , a new, empty vessel had existed for it to escape into, and so it had.  He knew it wasn’t going to be human, and Crowley would be foolish if she didn’t realize that too.

The Nephilim had been bad enough, and that was only angel mixed with _human._ That was the reason why such offspring with a _demon_  had always been killed, along with the ones who dared to try and create them, because no one knew what they would be, which would raise troubling questions, and because they shouldn’t exist at all and could cause havoc and suffering and who knows what other manner of chaos, and there was one in Crowley’s belly right now, and they were both shaking with fear but holding each other and becoming gradually more determined that it should survive to receive their love.

“They don’t need to know,” said Aziraphale.  “They haven’t taken any notice of us before.  There’s no reason they would now.”  


“We’re already in everyone’s bad books,” said Crowley.  “This is just going to make it worse.”  


“I’m not really sure it _can_  get any worse.”  They _were_ in, literally, everyone’s bad books, except Adam’s and the hordes of humans who didn’t know they existed.  Few supernatural beings that existed were uninterested in punishing them in some way.  Except for, perhaps, God himself, because if He _had_  been, it would have happened by now.  They had both been lying low, and neither were sure if their skills at staying under the radar or Adam’s potential meddling had kept them safe from retribution for their disobedience.  


Disobedience.  Well, there was about to be a lot more of _that_.

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale both agreed that God’s design for the human body during pregnancy was something they should not tamper with for fear of hurting the child, so they both swore off cheating for it in any way for nine months.  Crowley did this only reluctantly, because it seemed like admitting God was right about something, but ultimately her knowledge of biology was limited and relented to letting nature take its course without interference.

She regretted this decision when she discovered that human women had not been exaggerating about the phenomenon of _morning sickness._ Aziraphale’s job description quickly changed from “undress me slowly and fuck me senseless” to “hold my hair back as I vomit into the toilet.”

Crowley’s belly continued to grow, and she sprawled out on the couch.  Aziraphale came back with a carton of ice cream, and she supposed she should have been offended at his assumption that ice cream was what she needed to feel better, but it _was_ in fact what she needed to feel better, so she took it without complaint, and ate the whole thing in one sitting, comforting herself with the fact that she would be able to put her destroyed figure back together after giving birth.

Oh, god.  Giving birth.

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley.  


“Hm?”  


“Are we going to go to a human hospital when the time comes?”  


“I suppose so,” said Aziraphale.  


They went about in this manner all along the way.  

“Hey, angel.”

“Hm?”  


“Are we going to have a nursery?  With a crib?”  


“I suppose so.”  


_Are we going to get an ultrasound?  Are we going to ask what sex it is?  I suppose so.  Are we going to pick out its name ahead of time?  I suppose so.  Am I going to be a stay-at-home Mom?  I suppose so, if that’s what you want._

Eventually, Crowley got too big for her suits, and this irritated her very much, because nothing in the maternity section was stylish, she reported.  They also weren’t warm enough, and she shivered, and Aziraphale pestered her into wearing sweaters, which were warm enough but were still ugly, and she wore her ugly sweaters and ugly sweatpants and ate ice cream and threw up into the toilet and generally complained about the ache in her body, which was clearly poorly designed for this task, and about how she couldn’t drink or use her own abilities on herself.  She generally complained a lot, and Aziraphale let her with good humor, which was something that only one of them had at the moment.  And she was generally cold and bundled up in sweaters or warm blankets and Aziraphale was reminded of a picture he had seen of a snake coiled around a pile of eggs buried in warm sand while watching a nature program with Crowley.

And there was one day, when they were both sitting on the couch curled up together, when there was a pounding on the door, and they both _sensed_  who it was, and Crowley skittered away as fast as her weighted body would move, and Aziraphale pushed her into the closet just a second before the door collapsed inwards.

It was the archangel Michael.  


Aziraphale whipped around and moved away from the closet, hoping Crowley could sufficiently hide her aura.

“Aziraphale,” said Michael, and Aziraphale was alarmed to see him draw his sword as soon as he stepped into the room.  


“Now, hold on just a moment!” said Aziraphale.  He congratulated himself for sounding only like he was mildly terrified, and not like he knew he was in deep shit.  Michael would do worse than discorporate Crowley if he had come because he _knew,_ and he couldn’t keep that thought out of his mind.  “You can’t just come bursting in here!”  


“I’ve waited long enough!” said Michael.  “Every one else is too afraid to take action, but _I_ am God’s mightiest warrior, and _I_  know when something needs done, and _I_ am not afraid of anyone.  Where is that foul creature?  The both of you will pay for what you’ve done.”

Aziraphale could practically hear Crowley shaking with fear from her hiding spot.  “How did you find out?”  


“That is not important.  Tell me where it is!”  


“’scuse me?”  


Michael whirled around, then looked down to about four feet off the ground where a blond child in a grubby white t-shirt had materialized.

“You!” said Michael fiercely, but he stepped backwards away from Adam.  


“I thought we had talked about this,” said Adam, his voice a tad stern.  


“You have no authority over me!” said Michael.  “You cannot stop me from carrying out my sacred duty.  He has spawned an abomination with an unclean--  I was the one who destroyed the Nephilim, I was the one who cleansed the others when they-”  


“Yeah, but,” interrupted Adam.  “That was then.  These two are _mine._   I thought I told you, you can’t just go ‘round hurting other people’s friends and ‘xpect them not to get upset with you.”  


“As if it matters to me whether or not you are upset with me!”  


Adam glowered, then, and even Aziraphale shrunk away from him.

“I can make you do what I want,” said Adam.  “Not even my father could tell me what to do.”  


“I was the one who cast Lucifer out of Heaven.  I am greater than he is.  You can overtake him, but not me.”  


Adam stuck his hands in his pockets.  “Wanna bet?”

That was all it took.  The total nonchalant confidence of a child who was so confident that he could utterly destroy Michael, and the archangel was shaken, visibly.

He lowered his sword, scowling, then disappeared.

“Adam,” Aziraphale stuttered, beyond words.  


Adam waved weakly.  “Hiya.  Gosh, what a clod.  Are you all right?”

“I think so,” said Aziraphale, seeing Crowley peeking out from the closet amidst a pile of clothes.  “Er.  Thank you.  We honestly weren’t sure if you had-”  


“I was trying not to mess about too much,” said Adam.  “I thought I had made it clear they shouldn’t.  Well.  I just want the world to go on without them--you know.  Well, anyway, I ought to get back, I was watching telly and the adverts are almost over.”

He was gone.

There didn’t seem anything else to do besides sit back down on the couch as they had been before, but neither of them could quite remember what activity they had been engaged in.

* * *

There could be much written about their son, who was born in a human hospital perfectly happy and healthy, and who was--as only his parents could sense--a perfect chimera of his parents’ grace in a perfectly healthy baby corporation that neither Heaven nor Hell had handed out, but that had come from their love.  And much could be written about how he discovered his powers and embarrassed his parents and about how Crowley couldn’t decide if she liked her male or female body better and kept switching between the two, confusing all of their son’s playmates’ parents.  I could talk about how his name was Oliver, about his dark hair and intense sky blue eyes, about the special things he could do with his tongue, about his winning smile, about his wings which started off covered with down and then grew into glossy feathers that both his parents taught him how to groom, though one with more success than the other.  But perhaps it would suffice to say that it was a happy ending, and leave the rest to your imagination.


	2. Baby Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i MIGHT write more than 2 chapters if inspiration strikes, but I'm marking it as completed for now anyway because I don't have any plans for now, these are mostly my friend's ideas I am using, so we will see ^_^
> 
> on tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/132057085725/i-got-some-time-to-work-on-fanfic-so-instead-of

Crowley slept a lot.  Well, Crowley had always slept a lot, but now there was an excuse:  She had given birth, which Aziraphale understood was exhausting, in an abstract way, and also in a concrete way when Crowley snapped at him for interrupting her sleep.

She was sleeping right now, sprawled out on the bed in their shared bedroom, snoring so loudly that Aziraphale marveled she did not wake Oliver, who was likewise snoozing peacefully in a crib. Aziraphale occupied himself elsewhere in the cottage, thinking how marvelous of an idea it had been to move into the South Downs.  Soho was not an appropriate place to raise a child, and Crowley’s apartment was probably as far as it was possible to get from a homey environment.  There were some nice people in town, too.

A sudden high-pitched cry from the bedroom snapped him back to reality.  He hurried to the bedroom, only to see that Crowley was already up, rubbing her face muzzily and peering over the crib. He stood in the door and watched as Crowley cradled Oliver, settling the two of them in the rocking chair in the corner, baring her breast and allowing him to latch onto her nipple, murmuring half-hearted comforts.

* * *

 Neither of them remembered Warlock ever crying like this.

“Is he hungry?” said Aziraphale, struggling to be heard over the wailing.

“I’ve already tried that,” said Crowley, bouncing him on her knee.  Fat tears were running down his fat face.  “And I just changed him ten minutes ago, so that can’t be it.”

“Does he need a nap?”

“This blasted baby sleeps more than I do!  That’s saying a lot!”

Aziraphale looked doubtfully at the two of them.  “Perhaps a pacifier?”

“You remember what that nurse said.  It’s not good for him.”

Aziraphale had talked to a different nurse, who had said a pacifier was a great thing for a child, and neither of them were sure what that meant.  Neither had ever been human babies, and they had forgotten much of what they learned taking care of Warlock—although Crowley seemed to be doing a better job than him, if he were being honest with himself.

“I’ll just go see if he needs changed again, perhaps…”  Crowley trailed off as she took him into the next room.

Aziraphale rummaged around in the diaper bag to find the pacifier.  He could probably convince Crowley to let Oliver use it if the crying continued for much longer.  He held the binky in his hand as he walked into the room with the changing table.

Crowley was staring at Oliver with wide eyes, a dark red stain seeping out from under the baby onto the cloth under him.

“You’ve hurt him!” gasped Aziraphale.

Crowley’s eyes flashed up to the angel, then down at the baby, who was still sobbing pitifully.  “I haven’t!”

“He’s bleeding!”

“I don’t—”

Aziraphale leapt forwards and grabbed the baby, pushing Crowley out of the way. “Let me see.”

Crowley stood off to the side, trembling with barely suppressed anger and fear as Aziraphale turned Oliver over to find the source of the blood. There were two streaks of it down his back, and it immediately became clear why:  Two small protrusions had erupted from his back, breaking the skin.

“Wh-what…”

“I didn’t do anything, Aziraphale, I swear…”

It clicked, then:  Oliver was growing his wings.  It was only natural that it would hurt, just as it hurts to get one’s teeth in. Aziraphale let him continue crying, putting him back down, wiping his back with a cloth, too scared now to meet Crowley’s eyes.

“How could you even think I would hurt him?” said her voice, obviously choking back a sob.

 _Because you’re a demon_ , was the obvious answer that hung in the air.  Aziraphale did not say it, although he had thought of doing so, which he was not proud of. It was not the first time he had suspected Crowley might have ulterior motives for agreeing to give birth to Oliver, although it probably had been the strongest.

Based on the sounds she was making, Aziraphale knew that as soon as he looked up he would see Crowley crying.  He didn’t want to see that.  He really didn’t.  He wished he weren’t such a—a bloody idiot.  He hadn’t been able to suppress the reaction to accuse; it was instinctual.  He knew this wouldn’t work if he didn’t trust Crowley as much as she trusted him, because Oliver was not supposed to exist, and very bad things would happen if they could not trust each other.  He loved her, he was sure of that, but trust was another thing, and he would have to work on it.  Right after he got his baby to stop bleeding and his partner to stop crying.

* * *

 They both remembered learning how to fly, vaguely, thousands of years ago. There were obviously no human instruction manuals on how they might go about teaching him, so they got some books about raising domestic birds and tried their best to figure out how the advice on handling ducklings and endangered cranes might translate to a child.

They found a nice, secluded spot nearby, with a nice hill with nice soft grass and a nice, gentle slope, and resolved to visit it once a week with Oliver.  They started this as soon as he was old enough to walk on his own, although there was no way he could possibly fly with only the spots of fluffy, downy feathers that made up his wings at the time.  But they figured it might be good for him to not sit around lazing about, and at the very least build up the muscles he would use.  They could not think at what age he might begin to fly:  Would it happen along with him learning to walk, or later when he was learning other things, like how to grow his adult teeth and do his taxes and have sex?

Oliver did not seem to understand what was expected of him.  Aziraphale and Crowley had one of his hands each and took him down the hill, fanning their wings and cooing to him encouragingly to follow suit; he gurgled and smiled widely and seemed to be having a grand old time going down the hill, but showed no signs of any inclination to become airborne.  They went for two passes, then decided what they were doing was silly and gave up to have the picnic lunch they had brought.*

* * *

*Crowley unsuccessfully tried to convince Aziraphale that just a few drops of the white wine would not hurt the baby.

* * *

They did this, faithfully, each week, his steps becoming stronger and stronger, his down falling out and proper flight feathers growing in, his giggles replaced by “Look, look, I almost did it that time!” and “Your wings are so much bigger than mine, Dad, how am I ever going to get off the ground?”

Oliver let go of both their hands, galloped down the hill, fanning his wings, wanting it very badly, but falling flat on his face.

“Are you quite all right, dear?” said Aziraphale, helping him up.

Oliver’s eyes were watery with tears, but he refused to cry because he was a big kid now.  But he had scraped his knee severely.  He was sure he would bleed out.  Aziraphale hoisted Oliver up and put him on his shoulders, letting him play with his tawny feathers and mutter exclamations of frustration.

“Maybe he’s just not old enough,” said Crowley.

He felt Oliver’s hands picking at his hair and his primaries, alternatively. “Maybe.”

He did get old enough, eventually, though, and he shot off the hill as the wind snapped in his wings, tumbling through the air and howling with excitement.

The two of them followed him up, on either side, ready to catch him if his wobbly flight should fail and plunge him towards the ground.

“I’m doing it!  I’m doing it!”

“Don’t you think you’re getting a bit high?”

“He’ll be fine, Aziraphale, we’re here to catch him if he falls.”

“How high can you go like this?”

“As high as you think your wings can take you.”

Oliver flapped mightily, climbing higher and higher.  He would regret this later when his oft-unused flight muscles would be too stiff to move and aching from exertion, but he was enjoying it immensely at the moment.

They made an odd trio, two man-shaped beings and one child-shaped being up among the rolling clouds, the sun casting an orange glow on them.  Aziraphale and Crowley’s wingtips touched over Oliver’s back, the boy gliding enthusiastically and staring at the ground and the clouds and the birds passing them by with unrestrained delight.

Crowley was more paranoid than Aziraphale.  Crowley had never once forgotten how many people there were that wanted them dead.  Crowley sensed it first, snapped her wings shut, snatched Oliver out of the air and dived out of the way as a sword materialized where he had been a few seconds before.

Aziraphale pulled up, got a glimpse of shining armor, enormous white wings, saw the sword was coming around again.  He managed to materialize a blade and foist himself in front of Crowley and Oliver before the second blow came.

The two swords collided with an enormous _clang_ that bounced through the clouds.

“Michael,” said Aziraphale, panting with the exertion.

Michael’s eyes were narrowed at him, and at the terrified hybrid child clinging to his mother a few feet beyond.  “Do you think I had forgotten?  You dare fly this close to the Heavens with these abominations?”

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat, anger mounting.  He swung at Michael, who blocked the blow easily.

“You know, Michael,” said Aziraphale, parrying another blow, “I don’t know if Adam would be too happy about this.”

“You can’t use him to intimidate me,” snarled Michael.  “He has no authority over me.”  Michael’s blows were becoming angrier and angrier, sparks flying off his sword as it crashed against Aziraphale’s.

“You know!” said Aziraphale, his wings beating frantically to maneuver him safely.  “I can call him up!  I have my mobile in my pocket!”

“You’re bluffing!”

“He knows this is happening!  He can sense it and bring himself here in a matter of seconds!”

Michael broke off, his face frenzied with frustration, his knuckles tight on the hilt of his sword.  “You’re bluffing.”

Aziraphale _was_ bluffing.  He had no idea if Adam could see them or if he wouldn’t find out they had met Michael until all three of their bodies were discovered in a ditch somewhere.  But he had learned a few things from Crowley in the years they had been together.

“Is it worth the risk, Michael?”

Michael’s disgusted gaze went from Aziraphale to Crowley, who was clutching Oliver to herself.

“This can’t go on forever, Aziraphale.  One day you’ll get your punishment for this.”

Aziraphale snorted, held the sword out.  “Come administer it, then, if you think you can get away with it.”

Michael’s sword slammed into its sheath, and he disappeared with a rush of wings.

Aziraphale let his sword dematerialize.  He pivoted in the air.  “Goodness.  Are—are both of you all right?”

Crowley nodded.  “Yes, I think we’re okay.  Oh, bugger.”

“Why don’t we get down on the ground.”

“Yes, let’s do that.”

Crowley was relieved that there was still some wine left from their lunch. She downed the rest of the bottle as soon as they touched down.

The little grassy hill had served its purpose.  They left it behind, the skeletal remains of their last lunch scattered in the grass, and now Oliver flew from buildings, cars, trees, and every structure his heart lead him to throw himself off of.  And the angel and the demon were there under him, waiting to catch him if he fell.


End file.
